


Scrambled Eggs and Other Leftovers

by NiceCuppa



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Fluff, M/M, songwriting in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiceCuppa/pseuds/NiceCuppa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Yesterday, there was Scrambled Eggs. And before that there was John and Paul, in bed, memorising the tunes of new love songs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scrambled Eggs and Other Leftovers

He starts humming it, at first; his mouth is laid loosely at John's throat, and he can feel the vibrations of it, strong enough to be his own.

"That a new one, then?"

Of course it is. Paul's bloody _made_  of love songs, isn't he - silly ones John always says, although he seems to take it as flattery - cut him open and there they'd be. Tattooed on the inside of his skin. A gall-bladder full of break-up ballads. Ditties crowding the back of his throat. 

"Can't you leave those at the door, slightly?" John doesn't want to be serenaded, not tonight, maybe not ever again. Wants the truth, does John. The Indisputable Fact.

"We could do a nice duet, though, couldn't we?" Paul asks wickedly, wrapping his leg around John's waist. "Make a symbolic counterpoint to tonight's activities."

"There are no symbols in sex," John says, with the air of a professor introducing a lecture, although he allows his hand to wander down the slight curve of Paul's back, "just the flow of blood, the ejection of chemicals in the brain, the shared experiences of two bodies as they discover one another - "

" - Christ, you  _are_ tantric when you're in the mood - "

" - and besides," John concludes smugly, "I don't know the words." There's the warm breath of a laugh from Paul, at his mouth this time. 

"That's alright. I'll teach you."

And he does.

Not the  _right_ words, maybe. Or maybe they were, and the ones he decided on later were wrong. 

"Left at the door - " he sings to the tune.

"Your lips, your mouth - "

" _J'aime, j'adore_ \- "

When he regains his speech, a few minutes later, John teases, "I thought you were already doing one in French."

"I can do two. A multilingual man, me."

"You'll have watch out. It'll develop into one of those - what did we call them? Bourgeois cliches."

"The longer nights, the longing days..."

"Awful. Absolutely awful. Doesn't even make sense."

"We can always refine it, can't we?"

And they do.

They do, until words become inadequate and the lyrics refine themselves into shudders and sighs and gasps. 

 

***

 

Afterwards, lying half-asleep as close to Paul as possible, John can't get the song out of his head. He wants to tell Paul that it's good, damn good, damn catchy, and soon it will be a hit, people all over the country will be humming it, not just them, so does he want to go over it one more time, just once, to be sure they don't forget?

But he finds he's too tired to even open his eyes.

 

***

 

The next day he staggers into the kitchen, yawning hugely, to find Paul stirring eggs on the hob.

"Breakfast?"

"Lunch."

"Ah." John perches on the counter-top, next to Paul, who hasn't turned around. He starts to hum as he stirs, moving the wooden spoon in time with the rhythm. It's the tune from last night, of course - he can be fixated when he wants to be - and John is surprised by how happy he is to hear it. It really is good, simple and sweet, and a little sad. The tune reminds him of the lyrics, the various lyrics, and in turn the actions that had preceded and inspired each one.

A blush spreads over his face, and his breath catches.

"Careful, I'm having war flashbacks." Is all he says, nicking one of two slices of buttered toast.

Paul chuckles to himself, and starts to sing. Loudly, as if he was in front of an audience.

" _Scrambled eggs_

_Oh, my baby_

_How I love your legs..._ "

"That's good." John's smiling, even as there's a painful twist in his stomach. "That's the one we'll use in interviews."

"Yeah." Paul turns to face him, grinning, eyes lit with humour.

"I'll say it all came to me in a dream."

 

 

 

 


End file.
